by Leslie Wolfe
“I understand,” Dr. Jacobs replied in a somber voice. “I didn’t know… I had no idea. I would never risk the well-being of a patient, regardless of reason, Agent Winnett. You must believe me.”
Long after the call ended, Tess still mulled over the facts in her head. No matter how she looked at all the facts, the same question bothered her, over and over again. What had The Chameleon done before the Watsons? Garza had copped to all the family killings before that one, so that meant the Watsons were relevant somehow for The Chameleon.
Could the Watsons have been The Chameleon’s first kill? What kind of killer is so cold-blooded on his first kill?
She’d pored over the Watson murder details a few times, already, and had found almost nothing new. She’d spoken with the nanny, even with Laura, but there wasn’t anything else she could find. Yet, her mind went there obsessively, like she’d missed something.
She let a long breath of air escape her lungs and drained her stale coffee cup with two thirsty gulps, then decided to visit with Doc Rizza again. She texted Michowsky to meet her downstairs and took to the stairs, hoping for a miracle.
40
Reflections: The Dive
I wasn’t finished that night after all; I was reborn.
As my heart rate came down and my shallow, raspy breaths stabilized to a normal rhythm, a solution started appearing out of the blue. With the departure of my short-lived panic, came the arrival of sanity, of salvation.
But first, I had a few practical problems to solve. The night was dark out there in the middle of the Glades, and outside of the myriad creatures chittering in the woods, no one bore witness to my redemption plans.
I was supposed to be on a business trip to Jacksonville. I always plan my feasts carefully and make sure a convenient alibi is lined up. Most commonly used is business travel. I do the travel, make sure I’m seen everywhere, then come back a little early, right before my feast. After I’m done, I back track a couple of hundred miles on back roads and drive home on the turnpike, leaving a conveniently time-stamped paper trail. I don’t need to tell you that I pay for gas in cash when backtracking, or that kind of thing.
I’m sure you can figure all that out. I sometimes use a disguise, fake ID, or even a fake plate, when I’m cutting it too close, or when my alibis involve air travel. Flying is always the worst… a lot of cameras everywhere, from parking lots to airport lounges. But it can be done, you know. I’ve done it many times.
How about hotels, you might ask? Doesn’t the hotel register have me check out too early? Well, no. Not in this day and age of technology. Not when I make sure I only stay in hotels that allow Web checkout. I leave, I come back here, do my thing, then I log in remotely, via proxy, and check out of my hotel, at the right time to make sense for my alibi. I sometimes like to call the reception desk a few hours prior, right before starting my feast, and ask them some silly weather question, because I have this fierce migraine… Yes, they’ll always remember me, in case they’d be asked. Then I disappear via Web checkout, unseen, and vanish without a trace in the mass of inbound and outbound travelers who drive hoteliers crazy everywhere. Or so they’ll think. They’ll swear they saw me leave, soon after checking out.
As a general rule, most people, if I buy them a drink or two, they’ll remember I was there even if I wasn’t.
I was supposed to be in Jacksonville. I still showed as checked in at a hotel there, and that was an easy fix. Just log in and check out, about six hours prior to arriving home, in Miami. Then… what?
To understand my crazy solution, you must know a bit of forensics; and I’ve studied a lot. There’s nothing more destructive to DNA and blood evidence than water immersion. Oh, but wait, there is. That’s called salt water. What do we have here, in Miami? Yep, you guessed it. An entire ocean of it.
The challenge remained to find a plausible way to leave the turnpike paper trail with all its cameras behind, then somehow plunge my car into the ocean. I wasn’t thrilled with the prospect of ruining, in one single maneuver, both my impeccable driving record and my brand-new Lexus, but it sure beats the lethal injection. Okay, so my car insurance was going to take a hit. Tough luck, but it wasn’t like I couldn’t afford it.
I steeled my taut nerves at the thought of plunging headfirst into some bridge guardrail, then into the water, but there was no other way. After an hour of racking my brain searching for ways out, that was it, the only way out of that damn mess.
I started working on the details and the timeline. Technically, if I was in Jacksonville now, at nine in the evening, and the drive took, say, six hours, I had to check out immediately, backtrack for a couple of hours, then hop on the turnpike and start leaving the paper trail.
I still had two problems to solve. One, I needed to show clean and spotless on the many turnpike cameras. Spotless, as in no visible blood spots on my face, clothes, steering wheel, and hands. At least that. With a little imagination, a spare shirt from my suitcase, and some bog water from a puddle nearby, I got that fixed. I was clean enough to pass through highway cameras, but not more. To this day, I’m thankful I made it back into the car without an alligator or a snake taking a bite out of me. Lady Luck redeeming herself, that’s what it was.
The second problem was tougher. What possible reason could I have for leaving the Interstate and ending up on the bridge, headed toward Harbor Isles, otherwise known as the Causeway bridge? But, first, why that specific bridge, you will ask? Well, for many reasons, starting with the most important: that bridge is one of the very few left with metallic guardrails instead of concrete. I’m not sure my Lexus can safely cut through concrete, but I’ve seen a Honda plow through metallic guardrails without much issue. I didn’t want to risk it, so Harbor Isles it was.
Then, that bridge is always deserted at night; no one drives there at about three or four in the morning, my calculated time of arrival. Finally, that location held a good reason for me to leave the Interstate, a valid reason any cop would understand. Just yards from that bridge was a coffee and donut place, open twenty-four hours.
A minor detail, yet critically important, was to weigh down the duffel bag with my tire iron and let it sink in an alligator-infested lake I drove by, coming out of the Glades. Then I executed the rest of my plan perfectly.
Everything went without a glitch until I reached the Causeway bridge, where I couldn’t veer off due to traffic. I needed to land in the water when no one was there, to give the car time to sit in the water long enough for the blood caked in the perforated leather seats to disintegrate. White-knuckled and hearing my heart thump against my chest with a perfectly steady, slow beat, I drove past the oncoming traffic, turned around and drove out again, then flipped another U-turn and floored it.
I didn’t even hear the impact with the guardrail; the airbags deployed, cocooning me. A second of silence later, the car hit the water surface headfirst, and it smashed like it had hit concrete. Then water flooded the car rapidly through all four open windows. I stayed calm and let the water flush over me, then released my seat belt and exited through the window, leaving my beautiful Lexus behind, as it continued sinking.
I didn’t climb out of the water right away; I swam around for a while, just like a confused accident victim would do. My big splash woke up a couple of boaters, but by the time they peeked out their windows, the car was long gone. I swam under the bridge, where I stayed in the water for endless minutes, rubbing at my pants, my face, my hands, cleaning all traces of blood from my body. Finally, when I thought I’d done a good enough job, I climbed on the shore and positioned myself to be found by passersby.
Believe it or not, I fell asleep, right there, on the grass, near the edge of the road. When I woke up, they were loading me into an ambulance, and they’d already fitted me with a trauma collar. Content, I closed my eyes and let them fuss over me.
I was content with how I solved my challenge. I wasn’t content with how everything went down though. Not at all. Just twenty-four hours before,
I was salivating in anticipation of my feast with Shirley, and now I had to deal with the memory of running for my life, of feeling hunted. The powerful predator that I was felt ashamed, unworthy, and hated it.
That could never happen again. Never.
I took an oath that day. I swore I was never again to feel the bitterness of denial, or the breath of my enemy on the back of my neck. I was angry, angrier than I’d ever been before.
That’s when I decided to build my cabin, buried deep in the woods, an anonymous haven where nothing unexpected could happen, and where I could take my time with my guests. Where I could finally touch their skin with my bare, ungloved hands, and feel their silky warmth against the naked, taut sheath of my erection.
Too bad I can’t take Laura there. It would have been amazing.
By the way, that contract killer swears he’s got the job done. He said the trap’s already set; now all we should do is wait. It will happen, soon. Apparently, that’s quite common in the industry, when you want things to appear accidental.
I’m irritated and short-fused all the time; I can’t stop thinking of Laura, of what I could do to her, of what I can’t do to her. There’s only one fix for the fever I’m feeling; I’m taking someone today. It’s all arranged. I’ve had my eyes for a while on this pretty, young thing by the name of Monica. She’ll make a fine guest for a couple of days, take my mind off things.
I’ve never had a Monica before. I wonder what her skin tastes like. I close my eyes and envision this ripe, scented Aurora apple, ready for my first bite. I wonder if she’ll fight me… if her body will writhe against mine, in exhilarating spasms, or if she’ll stand still, offering herself in sweet surrender, closing her eyes, afraid to breathe, afraid of my blade.
41
A Few Surprises
Doc Rizza had aligned three evidence tables, one next to the other, and had set out the archived case evidence for the three cold cases they were working on. The tables were labeled neatly with sticky notes, and he was going through all the evidence bags, one by one, probably for the tenth time already.
He straightened his back with a groan when she came in, and smiled. He had a kind smile, that didn’t manage to clear all the tiredness in his eyes.
“I get visitors,” he chuckled, “must be important.”
“Very,” she replied. “The guys are coming too.”
“What’s on your mind?”
“The Watson case, Doc. I want to take another look at it. Anything new in there that could help?” she asked, pointing toward the evidence table labeled “Watson.”
“Maybe,” he replied, just as Michowsky and Fradella entered the morgue. He nodded in their direction. “There was a hair strand with follicle attached. It was packed separately, so I didn’t find it until two days ago. It was marked ‘Evidence excluded,’ and was never tested for DNA. Now it is; I put it through, posthaste.”
“And?” Tess asked impatiently.
Doc Rizza shook his head. “No match in the database, unfortunately. It’s male DNA, and it wasn’t a familial match to any of the Watsons, not even to Charlie, the little boy who stayed over at the Watsons that night.”
“Why the hell was it excluded from evidence?” she asked, then turned toward Michowsky with an inquisitorial look. “Gary?”
Michowsky’s brow furrowed.
“If I remember correctly, that hair was raven black, just like Bradley Welsh’s. Considering the hair length, we concluded it could have been his. Due to the close nature of their relationship, Welsh’s hair had all the reason in the world to be at that scene. The two families were—”
“Yeah, yeah, they were close. I’ve heard it a million times. Not enough reason to exclude evidence, though.”
“We strongly believed Garza was the killer,” Michowsky replied, staring at the cement floor. “I… we didn’t think—”
“Yeah. All right,” she said, a little colder than she would have liked, “we’ve got DNA now, and it’s not helping us much, is it?”
“No, it doesn’t,” Michowsky replied, sounding almost defiant, and raising his eyes to meet hers.
She almost reacted, dying to tell him that the fact there wasn’t a DNA match in the database didn’t make his decision to exclude evidence okay. It just made it forgivable. She did just that, chose to forgive, and said nothing. Soon enough, he averted his eyes again. He probably knew, just as well as she did, that he’d been wrong about too many things in the Watson case.
“Do you want to get a DNA sample from Welsh?” Tess asked.
“I could try,” Michowsky replied. “I don’t think we have enough for a warrant, but I can go to Judge Santiago. He tends to approve DNA warrants.”
“Okay, let’s do that,” Tess replied.
“You know there’s a strong chance he’ll laugh in my face. Bradley Welsh is not our unsub; he had a perfect alibi with more than a hundred witnesses. He raised The Watson Girl, for crying out loud. It can’t be him, I’m telling you. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“I know,” she replied, deep in her thoughts. “Let’s just try, for the sake of diligence. We have nothing else, anyway. This case has gone ice cold.”
As she spoke the words, a tug at her gut disagreed. She felt she was missing something, a critical piece of information, something that was right there in front of her, but she couldn’t see it. She ground her teeth and shoved her fisted hands deep into her pockets.
They all stood silently for a long minute, then Doc Rizza patted Tess on her shoulder.
“Why don’t you call it a day, guys? Get some sleep. Start again tomorrow, with fresh eyes.”
That wasn’t such a bad idea; it was almost midnight, and they were among the last ones in the building. She gave Doc Rizza a quick hug, then took the stairs to the main entrance, where the receptionist hailed her.
“This just came for you, Agent Winnett,” the young man said, “by courier.”
She opened the envelope to find a small flash drive and a handwritten note from Dr. Jacobs. It read, “I’ve included relevant family videos that Laura still had, with her permission, of course. They’ll help you establish a frame of reference for the regression sessions, which are also included. Call me with any questions, and good luck!”
She hesitated a second, thinking of running upstairs to watch the videos in the conference room, curious to see what more information she could garner. With a sigh, she decided to go home instead. At least she could watch those videos with her feet up and a cold drink in her hand.
She did her routine patrol rounds by Laura’s apartment, but her car wasn’t there, and the windows were completely dark. She wondered if they usually left the cat home alone without any light on.
A few minutes later, she had her laptop fired up in front of her, and she’d kicked off her shoes and removed her everyday sweaty clothes in favor of an oversized T-shirt and wool socks. She plugged in the flash drive and started watching the videos.
There was little to be gained from watching them. The Watsons had been a happy family, and the videos captured milestone moments in their lives: birthdays, Christmases, an Easter egg hunt with all three children, when the youngest girl was just a baby, crawling on the floor. She immersed herself in discovering what the Watsons were like, learning about their family life. She noticed the kindness in Rachel Watson’s eyes, and how carefully and patiently she took care of her babies. Allen Watson seldom appeared, most likely being the one who held the camera.
Tess chuckled lightly when she noticed how little Laura had difficulties pronouncing the letter “r.” That somehow sounded familiar, and she remembered hearing Laura’s answering machine, with the message recorded many years ago, when all five Watsons were still alive and happy.
She continued watching the videos, almost forgetting what she was looking for, immersed in the joyous life the Watsons had shared. At every party, people were entertained by Laura’s missing r’s, and constantly asked her to say her name. She kept saying her name was Lau�
�a, and they kept smiling, giggling, encouraging her, as if it was the first time they’d heard her say it like that. They weren’t mean to her; not in the slightest. They were enjoying her, like one enjoys the tricks of a sweet, little puppy.
Many of the video clips were from family birthdays and showed both families together, the Watsons and the Welshes. They were close, indeed. She scrutinized the Welshes for any red flags, any behavior or grimace that didn’t belong, and saw nothing. For all intents and purposes, the Welshes and the Watsons were part of the same family.
Tess swallowed a yawn and decided to watch one more video. It was a birthday video, and little Laura celebrated her fourth year. She wore a funny birthday hat, with little bells on top, and waddled about, taking paper plates with cake on them to her many guests, children and adults. She watched Laura as she turned to the table, took another plate with a slice of cake on it from her mother’s hands, and started taking it to someone who was off camera. Tess smiled, watching Laura’s funny walk, but then her phone rang, cutting into the peacefulness of the home videos like a knife.
She paused the recording and picked up. “Winnett,” she said.
“Tess, get to North Shore Medical Center, pronto,” Michowsky said, without any preamble. “Laura rolled over in her car, on her way home.”
42
Consequences
Tess arrived on the hospital floor as a doctor approached Mrs. Welsh and a young man, most likely Laura’s boyfriend. She recalled a framed picture she’d seen somewhere in Laura’s apartment, and that young man was in it. The three of them stood in a closed circle right in front of Laura’s room, and Tess slowed her stormy approach and pulled out her badge, but waited for the doctor to finish his update.
